The Wake
by Afalstein
Summary: "No. No, that body wasn't John Riley, it was Anderson, John Anderson." Years after narrowly escaping death, reporter Maxine Angelis recognizes a dead body from the scene of a major shoot-out. The "Man in the Suit" is dead, but if she can uncover the secret of his life and the people he left behind, perhaps she can give the man who saved her life the recognition he deserves.
1. Crime Scene

**Crime Scene**

The third greatest shock of Maxine Angelis' life hit when she realized that the dead cop on the gurney had once saved her life.

The first greatest shock had hit several years ago, when an irate FBI agent had informed her that her one of her articles on the police corruption HR scandal had gotten a good man killed. She remembered every detail—the beagle-faced agent glaring at her, the paint on the walls of the interrogation room, the security camera blinking at her in the corner, the subsequent disgrace, the car chases, the gun fights, the near-death escape at a circus carousel late at night, even the handsome-but-dull actuary she'd been dating at the time was burned into her memory. But what still stood out to her was the moment she'd learned that she'd let her work get in the way of her humanity.

The second greatest shock hit nearly a year after that, when HR rose up again, and then suddenly was taken down by Det. Joss Carter. That wasn't the shock. The shock was who she died to bring in—Alonzo Quinn, one of Maxine's oldest and most reliable sources for years. Although Maxine had written nothing on Carter or HR, she couldn't help but feel that she'd been used—that she'd been one of Quinn's patsy's somehow. No matter how many times she told herself she couldn't have known, still she felt responsible for Carter's ultimate fate

So she'd given up on big-profile corruption cases (or been kicked out of, depending who you asked) and devoted herself to the intense late-night action scene. Suddenly going into dark corners and dodging the odd stray shots at hostage shootouts no longer seemed so terrifying. In fact, Maxine found she loved the new adrenaline much better than her old desk-camping job. She gained a real knack for locating hotspots, a quick head for navigating tough situations, and a surprisingly good rapport with cops for her all-too-frequent eulogies on dead police officers.

And it was in that capacity that Maxine had the third greatest shock of her life.

"Gunned down in the office building." Officer Jack Reagan, one of her friends in the police department, told her as he led her past the tape. Maxine ducked under and followed him toward the front of the building, red and blue lights flashing off buildings. "Multiple assailants, from what we can tell. He may have gotten a few of them—there were some other bodies we're working to identify."

"Gang war of some kind?" Maxine asked. Organized crime had taken a surprising downturn of late, but there were still gangs.

"Not sure, ma'am." Reagan bit his lip. "We don't even know what he or his partner—" here he nodded toward the portly man sitting on the ambulance tailgate, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, "—were even doing here."

All the reporter instincts in Max's head went off. As a reporter you looked for odd details, things that didn't fit. Instantly her mind went to police corruption—HR again? In a war with a rival gang?—but she pressed the thoughts down. She'd learned not to let her biases not do the thinking for her.

She'd also learned to recognize faces. "Is that... Fusco? Detective Lionel Fusco?"

"Yeah." Reagan looked a little awed. Fusco was something of a legend. He'd single-handedly taken down Simmons, the man the whole NYPD had been looking for. The whole thing had been too positively dramatic for words, all sorts of news avenues had had a field day playing up the story of the veangeful cop who got justice for his partner's murder. Max had actually met him, once, before that whole business had gone down. He'd been one of the detectives that saved her from HR. Odd, the coincidences that life sometimes threw at you.

Or perhaps, not so odd. What if Fusco was involved with the new HR? What if the arrest of Simmons had been a takeover? Simmons had died of mysterious circumstances in the hospital, after all. What if...

Max closed her eyes and gave herself a moment to get her reporter instincts under control. "Has he been debriefed? Could I speak with him?" She asked. Apart from anything else, an interview with Fusco would get this item on the front page.

"Maybe later." Reagan shook his head. "Cap's still raking his ass over the coals, trying to find out what he and Riley were doing here. IA's probably going to talk to him too."

"Riley?" Max seized on the detail. "His partner? The one who died?"

"John Riley." Reagan nodded, leading her forward. "Detective. Hasn't been on the force for long, but hell if that matters." His mouth tightened. "We're going to catch the son-of-a-bitch who did this."

"You always do." Max gave Reagan a confident grin. She meant it—the next few days were NOT going to be pleasant for New York's underworld. Especially if it was Fusco's partner—privately Max made a vow to not so much as jaywalk for the next week or so.

"Hell yes." Reagan grinned. His head snapped up as a stretcher came rolling out of the building—bearing a body bag, not a patient. "Hang on. There he is." "Hey boys!" He called, bringing the coroners to a stop. "Hold up a bit!" He turned to her. "You wanna see the body, right?"

"Please." Max smiled. She couldn't take a picture, of course, but it would give her a few things to work with.

As the two of them approached the gurney, the wail of a fresh siren made her look up, just in time to see another car pull up to the scene. Max shook her head. Cop killings tended to attract more cops than were really practical. Two woman emerged from the cruiser, a young-looking hispanic lady, and a distraught red-head. Neither were in uniform, so they must be detectives or civilians of some kind. Maxine was ready to dismiss them both from her mind when the third person rose from the car.

Zoe Morgan. Infamous political fixer and heartbreaker. She'd stolen a date away from Max once. If she was here, there was definitely something going on. Max could feel it. Still, Morgan wasn't one to work for the outright criminal. Something other than HR?

"Hey Curatola. Mason." Reagan's voice roused her from her thoughts as he nodded at the cops manning the stretcher. "Maxine wants a quick peek for the obituary."

"That's a bit out of order..." Mason started.

Curatola, the senior, cut him off. "Hey, lay off, Mason. Angie's one of the good ones." He smiled at her. "Hey Max."

"Hey Ted." Max smiled back.

"You sure you wanna see this, Max?" Curatola said, reaching for the zipper. "Mason and I can tell you... it ain't pretty."

Maxine sent him a look. "C'mon, Ted. It's me."

"Suit yourself." Curatola picked up the edge of the tarp and lifted it back.

Maxine gasped.

"He did tell you." There was just a trace of vindication in Mason's voice.

But it wasn't the bullet holes buried in the man's gut, arms, and head that made Maxine gasp. It was the chiseled face, the dark hair, the rugged chin.

"What... what did you say his name was?" She asked, her voice quavering just a little.

"John Riley." Reagan looked at her. "Hey, Max, you okay?"

No. No, that wasn't right. Not Riley, Anderson. John Anderson, the surprisingly understanding actuary who'd had the misfortune to be dating her while the whole assassination plot was going on. John, who'd saved her life on several occasions. John, who she'd said goodbye to and never thought to see again.

John, who had been so interested in Zoe Morgan that night they'd bumped into her.

Maxine slowly turned to look back at the car. The three women were all at the fringe of the scene, talking furiously with the officer on duty. The redhead seemed almost frantic, the hispanic woman was flashing a badge, and Zoe was on her phone, doubtless calling up some favor to get them inside.

Maxine looked from the woman to the body before her, and knew she had just hit on something big.

* * *

 **A/N:** Much as I want a happy ending, Jonathon Nolan and Co have all but confirmed it's going to end with John and Harold dead (and by the looks of the Comic-Con trailer, it might be even worse. ) Maybe after it's ended I'll try to get a happy ending fix fic where everyone leaves to raise puppies or whatever, but in the meantime, here's this: What happens after the heroes are dead? Who remembers them?

Maxine Angelis was a Season 2 number, a reporter who was working on a story involving the presently-weakened HR gang, but also a separate story investigating the Man in the Suit. So John posed as her date, but he couldn't be obvious about saving her unless he wanted her secret to get out. Her episode also introduced Quinn as the head of HR, and featured Zoe posing as John's ex-girlfriend. It was an alright episode (featuring a funny moment where Finch had to hide in John's gun-closet), but not particularly notable. But I've always wanted to see more of the numbers return, so... I made a story about them.


	2. Identifying the Body

**Identifying the Body**

Maxine wanted to beat her own head in. Wanted to take the steering wheel in both hands and pound her head against it until the stupidity lodged inside shook loose. If she hadn't been sitting in a car with her tablet, poring through documents and files from a case she'd given up on over three years ago, she would have literally kicked herself.

She'd been saved by the legendary Man in the Suit years ago, and she hadn't even noticed.

Worse, she'd done it during a period when she'd been actively researching the urban legend and hunting up any possible leads about the mysterious vigilante. She'd probably known more about the Man in the Suit than any other person in the city, and then hadn't recognized him when he sat down at the table with her. The single most important interview since Moses talked to God, and she couldn't remember what the man had said!

It was so obvious, looking over her notes. He even LOOKED like the sketch one of her sources had provided. Draw a pair of glasses on the sketch and that was John Anderson, the mundane-if-handsome actuary she'd dated years ago. How stupid could she be, to be fooled by a pair of glasses?

Maxine let out a quiet groan and let her head _thud_ (softly) against the steering wheel. Just once. She allowed herself a few moments of raging frustration.

It wasn't just the lost opportunity to break a major story—Maxine had moved beyond that point long ago. It was also sorrow, and shame. She'd attributed her miraculous survival to a ridiculous strain of luck. Whenever a new rumor surfaced about "the Man in the Suit" helping this or that person, she'd always thought bitterly "he didn't save ME" and quashed the rumor. And now he was dead, and there was no possibility of thanking him.

Or was there?

Maxine lifted her head from the steering wheel as a thought occurred to her. Quickly she minimized the documents and pulled up a map, locating the nearest morgue. Finding it, she gave a small nod of satisfaction and picked up her phone.

"Hey, Waverly?" She said into the phone. "This is Max. Still at Westwood Mortuary?" She grinned at the response. "Of course I'm calling about the shootout. Let me buy you a midnight snack.

* * *

"Midnight" was pushing it... it was 3am before Waverly could be coaxed away from the bodies into a corner bodega manned by a bleary-eyed hispanic woman. It took another fifteen minutes before the tired woman came back with Waverly's chicken pasciatto and Maxine's double espresso, and by the time the two women finally found a clean booth to sit at, Max was practically champing at the bit.

"So, the Babbage Corporation shootout." Waverly bit into her sandwich with a gusto that made Max wince. "Messy business. Mr. Mpala called in Yona and Stanley to help us deal with all the bodies. Stan was pissed, he'd just gotten to bed..." Waverly shook her head. "That boy needs to lay off the tequila."

"Yes." Maxine gave a little nod, trying to hide her impatience. "It probably gets a little old for him... when you've seen one body, you've seen them all."

"Not like this." Waverly shook her head, mouth chewing away. "Thirty-seven bodies, all riddled with bullets." She paused to consider that. "Well... maybe 'riddled' is the wrong word..."

"How so?" Max asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Well, okay." Waverly answered, licking her fingers thoughtfully (Maxine tried not to remember that twenty minutes ago those fingers had been wrist deep in some guy's colon). "The first four bodies on my slab were full of lead. We're talking arms, legs, head, stomach, groinal regions..."

"I get the picture." Maxine set her coffee aside for a moment. "Psychos with machine guns."

"Except here's the thing." Waverly raised a finger. "I'm the morgue's gunshot girl, right? I know how to get to a bullet and fish it out without tearing up a person's insides." She shrugged. "More than they are already, anyway."

"You're the best at your job." Maxine smiled.

"Don't I know it?" Waverly gave a smug grin. "But see, what that means is that they let me take all the really shot up ones. Come to find out, most of the ones Stanley and Yona were carving up had just one or two shots apiece."

"What?" Max frowned.

"Most of the bodies either took one in the head, or two in the knees." Waverly repeated, mock-shooting with her finger at Maxine. "I got the only four that were a real crap shoot." She smirked. "Heh. Crap-shoot."

So there were two groups—four people against an undeterminate number. Four people that had, apparently, died in a hail of gunfire. "That's awful." She managed.

"Tell me about it." Waverly sighed. "You get good at a crappy job and they just throw more crap at ya."

"Yes." Max nodded, her mind flashing back to the bloodied front of Riley's shirt.

"What's worse," Waverly continued, "Is that they expect me to identify all four of those bodies. I mean, Riley, okay. He fell on his front, so the explosion let his face intact..."

"Explosion?"

Waverly stopped mid-sentence. "Didn't I say? There must have been some sort of explosion, too. The kneecapped ones might've lived, but whatever fire there was cooked them good. I'd say the bullet-ridden ones were lucky, but..." She shrugged. "They must've been closer to the fire than the others. There's a body in a three-piece suit that I'm never going to identify... there's literally nothing left of his face."

"So... Riley, someone in a suit..." Maxine answered, trying desperately to stay on topic, "...two others, you mentioned?"

"Both women." Waverly nodded, her face sobering a little. "Again, too burnt to get much of an ID on yet... they were both small, and the one was Middle Eastern, but that's about all I can work out. Though, there was one weird thing." Waverly picked up her fork. "Their hands..." she gestured, "...were, like fused together. Must've been the heat, it literally melted the two into one carbonized chunk." She shrugged.

Maxine nodded, noting it down. "They died holding hands?" She suggested.

"Leave it to you to put the romantic spin on things." Waverly smirked. "I try not to speculate too much. I mean, yeah, could be, but could just be they fell on top of each other just right, or one was trying to help the other up." She took another bite of her sandwich.

Again Maxine nodded, but it was more absentminded than anything. Readers would like the handholding explanation better, so that was probably what she'd go for. "Don't suppose you can tell me anything about the other bodies."

Waverly got that devious look that Maxine knew too well. "Hey, gumshoe, I can't possibly tell you about bodies I didn't cut open... unLESS I STOLE THE MANAGER'S SHEET!" She triumphantly produced a clipboard with a paper tacked to it.

"Holy shit, Wave!" Maxine snatched the file. "Isn't he going to notice this is missing?"

"Well, okay, I didn't steal it, I copied it." Waverly leaned back, still looking very pleased with herself. "Stealing sounded better. Knew you'd want it."

"Hell yes I do." Maxine's eyes flew over the page. 37 bodies in total... so the four on the one side, 32 on the other. The racial profiling seemed to be all over the place, the ages were mostly young to middle-age, apart from the body of a very old man that'd been found on the stairwell. Weapons, wounds, bullets found at scene...

Maxine frowned suddenly. "Hang on. The police report says to look for someone with a broken arm, but there's nothing here that fits that."

Waverly glanced at her. "What's that?"

Maxine pointed to the report. "The CSI team noted that a door had flecks of bone and blood on the edge. It had been bent at an odd angle, as if it had been slammed forcibly on someone's arm."

"Or neck, or head, or leg." Waverly hypothesized.

"My point is that I don't see anyone on this report who has any of those." Maxine pointed out.

Waverly took the report back and looked it over a few moments. "Hm. Yeah, guess you're right."

"So... what?" Maxine asked. "There was someone else there? Someone who got away?"

"Maybe." Waverly shrugged. "I'm actually not supposed to speculate about it. That's the detective's job. You'd be better off talking to them."

* * *

"You got nothing out of Fusco." Her editor stared at her.

"Absolutely nothing." Maxine frowned in annoyance. "He shut up like a box. Bunch of baloney about 'the investigation being ongoing.' and not being allowed to talk to reporters."

"Shit." Her editor sighed heavily. "Figures we'd run into a real hard-lining, by-the-book detective on one of these things."

"That's the thing, Fusco isn't any of those." Maxine protested. "Guy's got a serious rep for playing fast and loose with regulations. I mean, his department doesn't even know what he and his partner were doing out there."

The editor nodded pensively. "So... corruption scandal? Badass vigilante cop who doesn't play by the rules?"

"Gut feeling?" Max shrugged. "No to the first, Maybe to the second." (Definitely to the second, but she wasn't about to drop that bombshell just yet.) "In either case, this story's got legs on it, Perry. Put me on the front page, with a big splash of Detective Riley, and I'll guarantee you every awards committee is going to be kissing your ass two months from now."

"Yeah, heard that before." Perry looked unimpressed. "Look, Max, it's a cop-killing, but the rest of it sounds like some sort of high-class gang fight more than anything. I don't hear about any kids or teenagers caught in the crossfire, I don't hear anything that gets it past second page." He raised a hand to forestall Max. "Ordinarily, I'd say sure, let's do a solid for the city, but we got a lot of big stories going on right now. Capitol Hill is going all sorts of crazy, there's that viral dotcom startup, and someone ran over Punxswtawney Phil."

Maxine cocked her head. "Who?"

"That little groundhog from Youtube? Does all the funny videos?" The editor waved the topic aside. "Point is, we got a lot of things competing for that front spread right now. So, good as a cop shooting is, I'm afraid it's got to take a back seat right now." He turned his chair around, indicating the interview was over. "You post the blog entry yet?"

Max ground her teeth. "A quick and dirty bare-bones summary, yeah. I said I'd update with more details as they became relevant."

"Then start updating it."

Maxine left the office, fuming. What was she supposed to update it with? A personal anecdote about how Detective Riley had saved her life several years ago, while posing as her dinner date? Wild assertions about how John Riley aka John Anderson was the epyonmous Man in the Suit, the elusive urban legend? She'd lose her professionalism and her credibility in one fell swoop.

She collapsed into her desk, frowning. She knew it was true. She knew, if she could get John's face on the front page, that thousands would probably recognize him. Stories would start to pour in. She could write the biggest expose of her career, and she would feel again like she was doing good in the world.

But it wasn't happening, because Perry wouldn't give her the front page for a cop-killing.

Maxine resisted the urge to bash her head against the monitor. What sort of crazy world were they living in, when a cop-killing wasn't dramatic enough to net a front-page story?

Sighing, she opened up the blog, added in the details from the coroner's report (some details—too many might cost Waverly her job), and typed "Det. Fusco could not be reached for comment" at the end. She saved the edits, re-posted to the relevant social media sites, and sat back with a sigh.

Ten minutes. Four paragraphs. On a blog that barely a fraction of New Yorkers read. All that a heroic man would ever get for a life that he'd given helping total strangers. Perry was right about one thing, without any juicy hooks, no one would care about this story in a week or two. It'd be impossible to revive it. It'd be dead and buried, just like...

Buried. The funeral piece. Maxine snapped her fingers as it occurred to her. The paper would have to do a follow-up article in a week or two, when the funeral was being held. Perhaps the news would have quieted down by then. The funeral story usually merited a smaller profile than the shooting, for obvious reasons, but...

If she could build a story. Get together a real moving story of human pathos and drama, find some juicy hooks... maybe even find a way to prove that Riley had been the Man in the Suit... she could get this story out to the public and finally give her rescuer the recognition he deserved.

But for that, she needed to build a story on John Riley—a person who might not even exist.

No, she decided, as her mind thought back to the crime scene. John Riley had existed. And he'd left behind three women.

If Fusco wouldn't talk, one of them would.

* * *

 **A/N:** This was an interesting chapter to write. My brother's a journalist, so I know something of the work that goes into composing news stories, but I still had trouble working out what I wanted to say and how-what details to hint at and what to leave unspoken. Waverly the mortician rather grew out of the role I had planned for her, but that's okay.


	3. Next of Kin

**Next of Kin**

* * *

Zoe Morgan she'd recognized immediately. The other two women were easy enough to identify once she started digging into Riley's history with the NYPD. Dr. Iris Campbell, his departmental therapist, and Dani Silva, a detective in the Organized Crime division who had trained under Riley for advanced assault protocols.

Zoe Morgan was too tough a nut to crack without some artillery. Dr. Campbell could probably hide behind Doctor-Patient confidentiality. Her best bet was Det. Silva.

* * *

"The hell do you want to know about Detective Riley?" Detective Dani Silva asked.

"We're building a profile for the article about his funeral." Maxine answered smoothly. "There's no family, it seems so we thought we'd get anecdotes from his fellow officers." She raised her eyebrows at the detective. "You attended his course on advanced assault, yes?"

"...sort of." Silva conceded. "Back in academy. Wasn't really fair, though—the end test, you went up against Riley, and that man was a beast. Tore through recruits like they were tissue paper." A fond smile touched her lips.

"He helped you close a case on a gang infiltrator in the police office, correct?"

Silva stopped and frowned at her. "That's not supposed to be public knowledge." She glared.

Max just smiled. "The story's on Riley, not on the academy." She reminded her.

Silva seemed satisfied. "Riley sort of fell into it. He wasn't assigned to the case, just got caught in the crossfire. Sure stepped up, though." Another fond smile. "Not sure I would have made it without his help."

"Yes..." Maxine smiled. This was good, but more or less a confirmation of what she already knew. "Was that... normal for Detective Riley? Getting caught in the crossfire?"

"Only worked with him the one time." Silva shrugged. "I did a run with Fusco once, but again, that was by accident." Her face clouded. "Was weird to find out they were partners."

"I can imagine." It was odd, and suggested that Fusco may have been more involved in "Riley's" side-job. But it was useless confronting Fusco, or Zoe, or even Campbell, with so little. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Detective Riley?"

"Sorry. Not really." Silva shrugged apologetically. "You might have better luck talking to his captain, though."

* * *

"Detective Riley was a damn fine man." Captain Moreno of the 8th Precinct nodded. "We're all a little shaken up here... I'm sorry Detective Fusco hasn't been more cooperative with you..."

"We all grieve in separate ways." Maxine smiled. "I understand he was close to his partner."

"Close is... not... quite the right word." Captain Moreno seemed to be puzzling for the right word. "They worked well together, but... well, Riley was borderline abusive sometimes. Odd. Fusco usually doesn't take that sort of crap, but with Riley..." She shook her head. "One thing I will say is that he was loyal, definitely. Fusco covered for Riley more times than I care to remember."

"Covered in... what sense?" Maxine asked. "Bending the rules, that sort of thing?"

"Bending the time cards." Captain Moreno shook her head. "Riley never seemed to be around. I gave him several reprimands... at times it seemed like Fusco was carrying the weight of that whole partnership on himself. But at rare intervals..." A smile touched her mouth. "There was this one time he closed three cases in one day."

Maxine nodded distractedly, noting down the information. "What had he been seeing Dr. Campbell for?"

"Routine eval following the discharge of a weapon." The captain waved a hand. "Riley wasn't happy about it—no one ever is—but it's mandatory, so he had to go. Although..." She stopped suddenly.

"Although..." Max prompted, sensing something further.

"Well, it's just..." The captain frowned. "He opted for the additional six weeks the department covers. Usually an alpha male guy like Riley drop the therapy as soon as he can."

 _Interesting._ One of Maxine's theories was starting to fall into place. "How would you characterize the relationship between Detective Riley and Dr. Campbell?" She asked.

"Relationship?" Moreno's head shot up at the trigger word. "Why... Don't even think it, Angelis." She warned, shaking a finger at the reporter. "Dr. Campbell is _never_ anything but thoroughly professional. She knows the score, she comes from police. I'm guessing, based on the added hours, that she got Riley to open up, but beyond that..." Moreno shook her head. "Campbell's solid. She's not the sort to get her head turned by a cop."

 _A cop, yes, but what about a suit-clad vigilante?_ Maxine wondered.

* * *

"Dr. Campbell. Dr. Campbell, please." Maxine hammered on the apartment door. "Dr. Campbell, if you would just come to the..." She sighed. "I just... I just have a few questions I want to ask." She waited a moment. "About Detective Riley."

The door creaked open and Iris Campbell, eyes red and hair tousled, peered through the crack. "Go away." She nearly whimpered.

Max felt a burst of energy as any last misgivings she'd held about her theory fell away. "Please, Dr. Campbell..." She pleaded, masking her new enthusiasm. "I just have a few questions for the funeral piece... I want to give the people of New York an idea of the hero who died for them."

Dr. Campbell seemed to snap. "You couldn't possibly—" She almost-snarled, "You have no idea-" controlling herself with an effort, she closed her eyes for a moment. "I... interacted with Detective John Riley only on a professional basis." She said finally, eyes opening wearily. "Our sessions are covered by doctor-patient confidentiality, a confidence I could never betray to a dead man." She made a move to close the door.

"Please..." Max pressed her hand to keep the crack open.

She could have bullied her way inside. She could have baited the woman, counting on that sudden fury to reveal more juicy facts. She could even have made insinuations about the relationship between her and Riley, blackmailed the therapist into giving her more information. Max had considered a lot of possible attacks to break the impenetrable "doctor-patient" defense.

But somehow, looking at the woman, Maxine decided to take a chance. "I know who Riley was." She said.

Iris froze, her eyes locked onto her.

"He saved my life, two years ago." Maxine continued, taking a deep breath. "Only, he wasn't a police officer, and he wasn't John Riley."

There was a long pause.

"Please, tell me." Iris said finally, opening the door.

* * *

"You didn't know?"

"Not... really." Iris said. She was perched on the edge of the couch, huddled over a cup of tea. "Not... the full extent, certainly." She took a trembling sip from her mug. "I knew..." she started, "I knew he wasn't a cop, and I knew he... he had a hero complex." A bittersweet smile curved her mouth. "He saved my life once, and... I saw him save others. I knew he was hiding something, but he would never tell me what." She hesitated before adding, "He tried, once, but..." Breaking off, she glanced away, biting her lip. "...but I thought he was just making fun of me. But now..." She looked back. "What you're talking about..." Her gaze drifted over the papers and photos Maxine had spread across the coffee table.

"It is pretty incredible to believe." Max gave the therapist a little smile. "I actually started researching the project for a Halloween special on urban legends. I started to believe it for a little while, but then..." A small shrug. "It was just so incredible. Even with the proof I'd collected."

Iris shook her head, still studying the pictures. "I should have known. I knew John, I knew he would never... would never have lied to me." Her face cleared suddenly. "Well, at least not like that. Not with such a crazy, unbelievable story." She took another sip.

"My guesses were that he was former special forces." Maxine offered, sipping from her own mug.

"That fits." Iris nodded, closing her eyes. "He was very much a military man. We never talked much about his past, but he hinted that he'd... lost quite a few friends over the years. I speculated in my notes that that was part of where his hero complex stemmed from."

"That would make sense..." Maxine nodded, her mind flying back to her own brush with death. John had been so oddly insistent, dogging her every step, even taking her back to her apartment... yes, that was the behavior of a man desperate to protect. How could she have missed that?

"It was..." Iris's face was clearing of its grief, replaced instead by concentration. "It was odd, though... it seemed sometimes that the trauma was more recent. He said he'd had... 'a death in the family.'"

"Impossible." Max shook her head. "Detective Riley didn't have a family."

"Obviously." Iris rubbed her eyes. "It wasn't a lie, but I could tell it was a misdirection—someone close, a friend, who he considered family. What I couldn't understand at the time was why he wouldn't tell me that."

"A friend who died... someone associated with his side-job, maybe." Max considered. "Did you know any friends of his?"

"No... John was always very close." Iris shook her head. "He was starting to... trust me..." Her voice choked.

Maxine handed her a tissue and patted her on the back as the therapist wept for a bit. "What do you know about Detective Fusco?" She asked eventually.

"We didn't speak of him much." Iris said, blowing her nose. "He seemed dismissive of the man, but... oddly protective. But then..." she shrugged. "John was protective of everyone."

"Yes..." Maxine could not help agreeing. "What about Zoe Morgan?"

"Zoe?" Iris' head came up. She seemed puzzled. "She's a friend—we meet and talk every so often."

"Really?" The ball-busting fixer and diminutive therapist didn't seem to have very much in common.

Iris just gave a wave of dismissive weariness. "Long story."

"Oh." Max's reporter instincts cried at her to pursue this—a story on Zoe Morgan would be absolute gold—but she forced herself to stay on task. "Is that why she was there with you... that night?"

"That... that night..." Iris' brow furrowed. "I... I got a phone call from her. She said John needed me and that she'd pick me up..." Dawning comprehension lit up her face. "I didn't... I didn't even stop to think... how SHE might know John..." She looked at Maxine, face troubled. "Were they... friends?"

"Honestly, I have no clue." Maxine lied. "I was sort of hoping you could tell me. "John had had the hots for Zoe a few years ago, she was pretty sure, but what had happened since then was anyone's guess.

Iris seemed to be considering. "She's got a lot of enemies. Generally she's good at keeping them at bay, but I always warned her that one would catch up with her eventually." She cocked an eyebrow at Max. "Maybe one did—only John stopped them."

* * *

"So you figured it out." The woman picked up the glass and downed it in a single gulp. "Took you long enough."

Maxine watched her carefully. Zoe Morgan, famous political fixer, cool and collected player of the game, who'd never let anything get to her and always knew what angle to play, was very busy getting drunk.

It was probably the only reason Maxine had gotten anything out of her at all.

"I saw the way he looked at you quickly enough." Maxine shot back, nursing her own drink. "Did you guys have a thing going?"

Zoe waved a hand lazily. "On-again, off-again. More a business relationship than anything—we'd bump into each other in our work, fool around for a night or two, then disappear from each other's lives until the next time." Her mouth gave a little twitch. "Though even that had hit something of a snag since he met that pretty therapist."

"You know Dr. Campbell?"

"Sweet girl, Iris." Zoe gave a fond smile. "I was a little worried for her, to be honest—John's not the sort to stick around or share his life with anyone. Even if he were..." Zoe shrugged, "...that's not the sort of life for Iris." She considered her drink. "All things considered, it's probably for the best." Tossing back the glass, she again downed the alcohol in a single gulp..

"What sort of life did John lead?" Maxine prompted her. "When did you two meet?"

"Mm." Zoe signaled for another glass. "Posed as my driver on a job I had from Keller."

"Keller, the pharmaceutical mogul who went under after his company was exposed for illicit practices?" Maxine asked.

"That's the one." Zoe nodded profoundly. "Tried to off me. John stopped him. S'what he did. A big boy scout, John." A thought struck her and she smirked. "Well, I guess he probably didn't learn all his tricks in the boy scouts..."

"You said you met him at other times." Maxine interrupted that thought before it could go too far. "Other people in danger."

Zoe shrugged, downing the last bit in her glass. "I helped big people with little problems. He helped little people with big problems. We ran into each other every so often."

"Anyone in particular you remember him helping?"

Zoe sighed as her new drink arrived. "Persistent, aren't you." She muttered, shooting Maxine a dark look. For a moment she was silent, apparently thinking back. Her face looked calm, but the hand holding the glass shook.

"The first time," She said, finally, "was Powell—you remember the Delaney assassination, a few years back? How the police thought it was this nobody unemployed vagrant, and ended up letting him go? That was them. That was the first time they called me in." She snorted. "I didn't even know it was them, at first. I just thought I was meeting with a new stuffed shirt with a lot of money to throw at a problem."

."Them?" Maxine blinked. "Stuffed shirt... Detective Fusco?"

Zoe looked at her, puzzled. "Fusco? That hack wasn't..." she broke off, wonder spreading across her face. "You don't know." She smiled. "You don't know about Harold."

"Was... Harold one of John's aliases?" Maxine guessed

A loud snort. Zoe apparently found her amusing. "John was always John. Harold was always Harold. Those were about the only consistent things I could depend on from the two of them."

"An accomplice." Maxine sat back in astonishment, thoughts flying. Of course the Man in the Suit would have allies. Of course it would have to be someone outside the police force.

"More like the boss." Zoe answered, already deep in her next glass. "However much he tried to deny it. Had ALL the answers, and ALL the money."

"Did he... help John find out who was in danger?" Max asked eagerly. "Was he from the government, or a philanthropist, or... What could you tell me about him?"

"Small, scrawny, walked with a limp and wore round glasses. That's it." Zoe shook her head. "Paranoid son-of-a-bitch. Don't think I ever got a straight answer out of him."

It wasn't much to go on, but still..."Do you know how I could reach him?"

A snort. "Hire someone to kill you. Or don't—without John, he probably wouldn't get to you in time. IF he's still alive."

Of course. That was a possibility. Maxine grimaced at the thought. "What do you know about Detective Fusco?" She asked. He was the next piece of the puzzle.

"Not much." Zoe gave a weary shrug, fingers playing with the rim of her glass. "At least not how a dirtbag like him ended up working with a guy like John. I did more with his old partner."

"Carter? Joss Carter?" Maxine couldn't believe what she was hearing. This case just kept getting more legs on it. "The cop who took down HR?" The other cop who had rescued her, she realized belatedly. Christ, had anyone that night NOT been hiding something?

"Again, don't know how they got together, or what it was like." Zoe picked up her drink and took a sip. "Just know she was in on it."

Maxine's thoughts were flying. She had a huge story here. Only she still had no proof. It barely needed saying that the minute she was sober, Morgan would deny everything and find some way to discredit the recording Maxine had going in her pocket.

"This city's a dungheap, y'know that?" Zoe burst out suddenly. Her words were just slightly slurred. "This l'fe. It'sa bitch. I mean... I'ma fixer. I trade favors. Ev'ryone wants something, everyone g'ts somthing to hide. Good m'n like John and Harry..." She shook her head. "...didn't ask for anything. Didn'take an'thing. Didn... WANT an'thing" She downed another glass. "T's not right..."

"Yes." Maxine agreed, quietly.

But maybe, somehow, she could make it just a little bit more right.

"Would you mind," she said carefully, pushing a drink coaster and a pen in front of Zoe, "...writing down the names of the people you helped them with?"

* * *

 **A/N:** That should not have taken so long. I've been distracted by other writing projects. I did like this chapter. Particularly Zoe's bit, but also Iris's. I like Iris, I hope her plotline is resolved next season. Given what John said to her, I think there's going to be a revelation of some kind, but unless she's a number and in mortal peril, I doubt she'll believe it.

I almost wonder, actually, if Iris's role was originally meant to be played by Zoe. It makes sense, character-wise and plot-wise, for John to have a love interest, who might very well feature highly in the show's finale. But given that Zoe's actress is busy with the Americans, she might not have the time to play a major character in PoI. Which is just as well, because as much as I liked Zoe, her scenes with Reese always seemed so... chilly. Like both characters were too cool to actually show interest in each other. Iris' scenes with John seem much more genuine (which is odd, because apparently the actor/actress don't get along (EDIT: Nevermind. I heard this from someone on the internet, but I've yet to find ANY sort of corroborating evidence. So apparently it's not a thing)).

Incidentally, I'd love some feedback on this story. I'm so glad there are people faving and following it, but I'd also like more specific feedback about the writing. So if you have a moment, I'd really appreciate it if you could drop a review! Thanks.


	4. Friends and Neighbors

**Friends and Neighbors**

* * *

"Scott Powell?" Max smiled pleasantly at the roughened man eyeing her suspiciously behind the door. "Max Angelis, with the Tribune."

The man didn't move. "What is it?"

"We're doing a flashback piece on the senator's assassination from a few years back, we were wondering if you would care to shed some light on some points?" Powell grunted and started to close the door, so Max hurriedly added, "Particularly, the man who broke you out of the FBI prison transport."

* * *

"Lloyd Pruitt?"

"He's not at home." The redheaded woman at the door smiled. "I'm Connie. How can I help you?"

"Well, you could start by not telling such obvious lies." Max frowned. "Your husband is under house arrest, he literally HAS to be at home." Connie's gaze hardened, but Max pressed on. "If he doesn't want to see me, that's one thing, but tell him it's about John." Connie just looked puzzled, so Maxine tagged on—"John, his old neighbor."

* * *

"Ian Murphy?"

"Yes?" A light southern drawl, somewhat irritable, or at least it was until the face attached to the voice peeked through the cracked door and got a good look at her. "Yes?" He said again, much more politely.

"Maxine Angelis, the Tribune." Max said confidently, watching the man. Zoe was right, this guy was a charmer. Two buttons popped on her blouse and apart from a single appreciative glance, his eyes never wandered below her chin. "I just have a few questions..."

"Of course." The man closed the door momentarily to take off the chain and then opened it all the way. "Perhaps you'd like to sit in the lounge?" He offered, leading the way. "Anythin' I could get ya?"

"Water, please." Max had learned to accept drinks—it made hosts feel more comfortable—but being a reporter she also had to be careful about whatever perks she accepted on the job.

"You got it." Murphy poured out some water, dropped in a few ice cubes, and dropped a lemon slice in it. _Smooth._ Max felt a grin twist her lips. "Now, what is this interview about, exactly?" He asked, handing her the glass.

Max took a sip before responding. "About your father-in-law, Bruce Wellington." She saw Ian freeze halfway to sitting down, and her grin grew. "And about Detective Carter."

* * *

"I'm sorry, but Mdm Dobrica is much too busy to see anyone." The concierge at the front desk informed her icily. "If you would care to leave a note..."

"I have a better idea." Max took a card from her vest pocket and scribbled something on the back. "I will SEND a note, that you'll take up to her now, so that she can clear her schedule and we can have a nice long talk." She handed him the card. "Run that up, would you?"

The concierge did not move. "Mdm. Dobrica..."

"Turn it over." Max gestured.

The concierge did. And stared. Zoe Morgan didn't exactly have a business card, but the insignia that was her equivalent was well-known in a haunt of the rich and powerful like Dobrica's.

"I will take this up to Mdm immediately." The concierge said, more respectfully.

"You do that." Max grinned. If Zoe's name didn't impress Mira Dobrica, elusive and powerful manager of the most respected hotel in New York, the scrawled epitaph, "John Riley is dead" on the back probably would.

* * *

"Detective Fusco, I..."

"Piss off." Grunted the overweight detective, barely glancing up from his desk.

* * *

Powell froze, but he still eyed her suspiciously. "You with the feds?"

"No sir." Max shook her head.

"With the police?"

"I'm with the Tribune." Max reminded him.

"I ain't giving up no one."

"You won't be." Max withdrew the photo of the dead Riley and held it up for Powell to see.

There was a heavy silence.

Powell drew a long sigh. "Shit." He unlocked the door.

* * *

"John? Lloyd Pruitt, a middle-aged man with a lightly trimmed beard, pushed past his wife. "From next door? What about him?"

"I'd like to hear the story of how you met him." Max said. "And how he saved your life."

"How do you even know about that?" Connie questioned.

Max shrugged. "I have sources."

"Wait." Lloyd held up a hand. "That whole mess was years ago. Why are you coming to us now?"

Max drew a deep breath. "He's dead." She said simply.

"What?" Lloyd took an involuntary step forward. Connie gave a small gasp. "How... Are you sure? How do you know?"

Max showed them the picture.

* * *

"Carter?" Murphy feigned ignorance, but his face was too obvious.

"Joss Carter, from the NYPD." Max clarified. "You must have read about her death in the papers. Truly, though, I'm less interested in Det. Carter than a friend of hers who you may have met..." she held up Det. Riley's work photo. "Look familiar?"

There was a silence.

"Well, this is going to be a tad awkward." Murphy frowned.

* * *

"I never knew any John Riley." Mira Dobrica was an Eastern-European-looking woman, petite but fiery, with dark hair drawn back into a tight bun. She tossed the card back to Max and sat back behind her massive desk. "And my concierge was right, I AM rather busy, so suppose we cut this short and you tell me what Zoe Morgan wants and why she thinks I know someone named John Riley, who is dead."

"You might not know John Riley." Max admitted. She placed the morgue picture on the massive desk and watched the hotel manager stiffen. "But Zoe says you certainly know John."

As Mira picked up the photo with trembling fingers, Max dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk and readied her audio recorder. "So what was his name?"

* * *

"I never knew his name. He came out of nowhere." Powell shook his head. "Tackled me at the event, then later... well, you know about the prison transport." Apparently there was an ambush waiting at the police station... I'd have never lived to see trial."

"Even if you had..." His wife Leslie pointed out. "They had a convincing case against you, dear."

Powell nodded agreement. "Things didn't look good for me." He agreed. "Whoever framed me... they sent out a hitman when I didn't show up. The... Man in the Suit..." Powell gave a shamefaced smile at the name, "kept me safe—kept me sane, more importantly." He shook his head. "I don't know what I'd be without him."

* * *

"I can't remember his name, exactly." Lloyd scratched the anklet and glanced at his wife.

"John Kendell, dear." She supplied.

"That was it." Lloyd snapped his fingers. "He and his wife had just moved in next door when everything started."

"Wife?" Maxine raised an eyebrow.

"Zoe." Connie provided. "Tall woman, tan, brunette. Lovely lady."

"Oh." Max pretended to make a note of that as she struggled to restrain her mirth. Now THAT was an image. She wondered if it could serve as leverage against the infamous fixer in the future.

"I knew there was something..." Lloyd shook his head about a little, "... _off_ about them..."

Connie rolled her eyes. "Dear, please." She cut him off. "After that barbecue, you commented on how nice it was to have such _normal_ people next door."

"Well..." Lloyd looked a little nonplussed. "TOO normal. That was what I meant."

Connie shook her head, a fond smile on her lips.

"Anyway." Lloyd coughed. "I probably WOULD have caught on eventually. I've got some experience with con men..."

"You mean jewel thieves?" Max interrupted.

A wince. "Right." Lloyd gave a rueful nod. "That's why I didn't really have time to focus on them."

"I still don't understand why you just didn't lead with that when we were dating." Connie interjected. "Jewel thief is SO much more interesting than 'retail specialist.'"

"Because the gang of guys I rolled with were psychos who tried to kill you and Izzy." Lloyd pointed out. "Would have, too, if it hadn't been for John and Zoe."

"What happened?"

"Still not sure," frowned Lloyd. "John somehow showed up in the middle of the jewel robbery, took out the rest of the gang..." He shook his head. "It was crazy."

* * *

"Him? Didn't get a name. He was just the scary guy itching to put two bullets in my head."

That was a new side. Max supposed the Man in the Suit would also have probably killed people. It was a bit of a surprise, though, to learn that apparently he DIDN'T always help out people. For a moment, Max wondered if he'd been prepared to kill _her_.

"Detective Carter?" She asked, bringing them back on track.

"We'd... gone on a date." Murphy rubbed the back of his neck. "Things were going well until some goons showed up trying to kill me."

Max snorted with sudden understanding. "I hate it when that happens." Murphy glanced at her and she waved him off. "Forget it. You were saying...?"

"Right. Well, turns out, Carter'd been wondering if I was some sort of serial killer. Or at least," he pointed at the picture. "...tall, dark, and angry there did. Fortunately that got straightened out pretty quickly. They helped me sort out issues—" his mouth tightened momentarily, "—with my father-in-law." At Max's probing look, he sighed and elaborated. "He'd... sent the men to kill me. And kidnapped a son I didn't know about, apparently."

"And they helped you."

"Carter helped me. Got me custody of my son." Murphy looked down as a warm smile flooded over his face. "All I ever wanted."

* * *

"He was just John, at first." Mira Dobrica, hotel manager, frowned at Maxine over her long desk. "The employment records said John Reese, but that must have been an alibi of some sort. He started out as a bellhop here—had a bit too much of an attitude to be very good at it, but.." She shrugged. "...I suppose that wasn't really the point."

"What was the point?" Maxine asked.

"Saving me, obviously." The Armenian woman sighed, leaning forward to pinch her nose. "Ghosts from the past, guns hired by a very powerful man from the old country. Fortunately they weren't counting on him." A smile. "Well, not JUST him..."

"He had allies?" Max asked, just a little too quickly.

* * *

"Not that I ever saw." Powell shook his head. "He seemed to be on the radio with someone, at the start, but there was some sort of problem. Must've had some help, but I couldn't tell you what sort."

"Daddy!" A small girl ran into the room. "I can't find my rock tumbler, and Owen won't help me look!"

"Dear, we're meeting with a visitor." Leslie admonished the child.

"Check in the upstairs closet, Mia." Powell ruffled her hair. He turned back to Max. "I'm afraid I can't tell you much more than that—they turned me back over to the police as soon as they found evidence to clear me. And... he wasn't exactly the sort of guy you wanted to ask questions to."

* * *

"Zoe was more than his wife, I'm pretty sure." Connie said. "Lloyd and I compared notes later and... there was something weird about the way she came over JUST when I'd gotten upset."

"John installed the cameras at this place." Lloyd nodded. "She must have been watching with them." His brow wrinkled in thought. "There was a guy from the security company who helped put them up, but..." He shook his head. "I can't remember his name."

"Didn't you think there was something weird about the jewel heist, too?" Connie reminded him.

"Yes!" Lloyd gave a sharp nod. "Blaring noises, out of nowhere. Distracted Von and the others at just the right time. I thought there must have been someone behind that. And the weird way he knew exactly how to avoid the police. He must have had a contact in the police department."

* * *

"Carter, obviously." Murphy shrugged. He frowned suddenly in thought. "Actually, you know what... he might have had a torch burning for Carter, now that I think about it. The way he was looming over my shoulder..."

"Really?" This just got more and more interesting. Iris had mentioned John had something of a hero complex, but had that ever developed into something more?

"Just a feeling." Murphy flashed a quick grin. "The only other one in the room was the scrawny guy in the three-piece suit, with the glasses. Never learned his name either."

* * *

"Harold."

"You knew Harold?" Max said, trying to contain her excitement. This was the first confirmation she'd had.

"He started out as a concierge, about the same time John started as a bellhop." The hotel manager had a fond look on her face. "He seemed so ordinary—very good at his job, but almost invisible. The sort of man you could walk right by and not notice." A bit of wonderment entered her expression "He and John had... the oddest relationship."

"How so?"

"It was like... Harold was in charge, but he wasn't in charge." Ms. Dobrica had a frown on her face as she tried to articulate her thoughts. "He and John were always going back and forth—they had these earwigs so they were always in contact. They were like two sides of a coin." She shook her head. "It's difficult to explain. Harold was a friend, but he was also a boss."

"Did you ever see them again?" Max asked.

* * *

"No." Powell shook his head. "Well..." He seemed to consider. "I guess once... when we were being hounded by reporters. I saw him back there with that one brunette woman—the one who got them all to leave." He shook his head again. "But after that, nothing. I've sometimes wondered if he had anything to do with the new job I picked up right after that whole mess, but..." he shrugged, "hell, the guy's not a miracle worker."

* * *

"No. We said goodbye on that very front step," answered Lloyd, nodding at the front door. "After that... well, I don't get out much."

"You're still under house arrest?"

"Yeah." Lloyd lifted his leg to look at the bracelet. "Got a board review coming up in a few months, maybe they'll take it off." He shrugged. "It's not all bad, though. And it's definitely better then looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life."

"Or not living at all." Connie touched his leg.

"Yeah." Lloyd gave a nod.

* * *

"Carter showed up to my hearing and testified on my behalf." Ian said. "The rest of them..." He frowned. "I did..." He paused, then continued, "I did see Carter's death announced in the papers. I went to her funeral. I couldn't be sure, but..." he shook his head. "I... I thought there was a guy... standing a ways apart... not part of the funeral, but definitely looking at it. He was wearing glasses, but... I honestly couldn't tell if it was the same man."

* * *

"Yes, off and on." Ms. Dobrica smiled suddenly. "Not John, but Harold... Harold bought the hotel, right after that whole mess. Put me in charge of it, and turned it into what it is today." Mira cast a long, approving look around the office. "Still came in to serve as concierge every so often."

Max blinked. "What?"

"I told you." The woman tilted her head. "An excellent boss. Excellent concierge, too, for that matter—he knew _everything_ there was to know about the city. He seemed to love the work."

Her face clouded. "And then... one day... I woke up as the new owner. All the records said I'd owned it for years." A blink. "Along with... a sizeable bank account. That was a shock. I hadn't realized Harold was THAT rich."

Something told Max that Harold had probably been a good deal richer, but she held her peace. Ms. Dobrica seemed to be on the verge of saying something.

"I... I wondered." She said, haltingly. "I wondered, at the time, if... if he had died, and left me the things in his will." Slowly she shook her head. "It seemed like if he had... John would have come, or his lawyer, or... or someone who..." She looked at Max. "It seemed like there really should have... been more than there was."

* * *

Powell looked at her suddenly. "Could I see that... picture again?

She handed it over and he studied it a long moment. "Christ, what a mess." He said at last, putting it aside. "Seems strange..." He shook his head. "If you could have seen him, how he moved, how he... just..." He sighed. "I coulda sworn the guy was invincible. I remember thinking later that he'd never die."

Max wasn't sure what to say. She'd never seen 'John' at work... something he'd worked very hard to ensure, she imagined. "Everyone dies." She said finally.

"Yeah." Powell nodded. "But some of us die better than others."

* * *

Lloyd looked up at Max, suddenly grave. "He's... dead, you say?"

"Yes." Maxine gave a little nod.

Connie bit her lip. Lloyd closed his eyes.

"Did he have any family?" He asked at length. "I can't... go to any funeral, obviously, but... I feel I ought to... were there any friends, anyone he was close to?"

"I'm not sure." Maxine smiled sadly.

* * *

"Why are you coming about this now?" Murphy looked up at her with a questioning gaze. "Carter's been dead for over a year, Bruce died half a year back, there's nothing..." He caught her look. "...you don't mean... him, too?"

Max gave a quiet nod.

Murphy fell silent. He looked out the window for a long moment. "So many people..." He murmured. "Dana, Carter... even those other girls..." He looked at her again. "Do you know at all... why?"

"I really don't." Maxine admitted.

* * *

"I don't know much about this Harold." Max answered honestly. "So I can't tell you for sure if he was killed or not. There were some unidentified bodies at the scene..."

"If John is dead, then so is Harold." Mira interrupted her.

"How can you...?"

"I told you." She said. "They were like two sides of a coin."

Max chose to just nod. She hadn't had the chance to observe the partnership, but the hotel manager seemed fairly convinced. "You're right." She said quietly. "There really should be something more. That's what we're trying to arrange. Do you know anyone else they helped?"

* * *

"No."

* * *

"No."

* * *

"Other people?"

* * *

"Occasionally Harold would call me and have me set apart a special hotel room for an unspecified guest." Dobrica shrugged. "But... I never asked questions."

Max nodded. It'd been a long shot anyway. "Thank you very much." She said, standing.

* * *

"Detective Fusco, just a moment of your...

"I SAID... get lost, sweetheart."

* * *

Max sighed as she walked out of the elevator. Well, it was better than nothing, and maybe enough to get her editor to give the piece some coverage, but most of it was unusable. The Powell story had been milked dry already, Murphy could barely tell her anything that didn't involve Carter, and Dobrica probably had some federal witness clearance that would squash any attempt at publicization. The only other names Zoe had given her was a retired teacher who'd suddenly died of heart disease a month ago, and a psychologist that Zoe had labeled as a fake, without any known name.

Max'd been hoping that getting a foot in the door would give her the break she needed—that some victims would lead to others, and that she'd be able to assemble a worthwhile story. But true to form, John had kept everything very quiet and compartmentalized. She wouldn't get any further working the case from this angle.

She halted a few feet from her desk.

Sitting in her chair, sandaled feet propped up inches from her computer screen, was a tall, lanky man with a mop of brown hair and a thoroughly bored expression. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a grungy T-shirt under what looked like a curiously expensive blazer.

"...Can I help you?" Maxine asked, trying to keep hostility out of her voice. On the one hand, she really didn't appreciate her workspace being invaded. On the other hand, she had learned not to be rude to potential sources.

The man glanced up at her and there was just a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "Well, I hope so, otherwise this whole trip was pointless." He responded, kicking his feet off the desk and standing up. "Maxine Angelis, right? News blogger?"

"Reporter." Max answered, still vainly attempting to squash her hostility. She disliked the term "blogger," so many people felt that gave them free license to disrespect her. "And you are..."

"Aheh. I'm sorry, I thought you had eyes." The man said, giving her a look. He held out his hand. "Logan Pierce."

It took Maxine a moment. Then the name suddenly clicked with the face and the manner and the obviously muscled guy in a suit lurking just a few cubicles over. Franklin Pierce. CEO of FacePage. One of the youngest and wealthiest billionaires in the world.

"Oh." She managed, as she politely shook his hand. "How... ah..." She realized that all her fellow employees were subtly shooting them glances every couple minutes. "And... how can I help you, Mr. Pierce?"

For answer, Pierce stepped back and tapped the screen of her computer. "Him." He said, tapping the picture of John Anderson / Riley. "Tell me about him."

* * *

 **A/N:** This took a little longer than I expected, because after I'd written the chapter in one format, I decided to switch it to another. And then PoI came out on Netflix, and I quick researched a number of the numbers mentioned here-and realized that I'd totally forgotten about "Lady Killer."

Thanks for all the reviews, though! As I said, I really appreciate reviews, I prefer them to faves, as they give me a real connection with my audience.

This chapter is going to probably be more typical of the next few chapters-accounts from previous numbers. I'm hoping, with each, to give a sense of how John/Harold affected them, and how far they've come since, so it won't be just episode recaps.

And in case anyone is wondering, Mira is correct. Harold is dead. I meant this to be clear in the second chapter-he's the body without a face, which I thought was a fitting end for Harold.

EDIT: Meant to add this before-I said in the last chapter that Caviezel and Shmidt (actors for Reese and Iris) don't get along. This was an unsubstantiated rumor I heard on the internet, and I've been unable to find any supporting evidence for it. So forget what I said about that. Apparently Jim has actually complimented Wrenn's ability in interviews, so they get along just fine.


	5. Autopsy

**Autopsy**

* * *

"That affair three years ago." Max said, some minutes later. "When your partner tried to kill you... John saved you?"

"Met him at a function. 'John Wiley, hedge-fund manager.'" Logan Pierce, sprawled over the couch in the lobby, made air quotes with his fingers. "Bought a letter for ten million dollars, right out from under me."

"Ten _million_ dollars?" Max gasped.

"Just to get my attention. Didn't even bother to pick up the letter afterwards." A smug smile spread over Pierce's face. "His little friend in the glasses must have been _loaded._ "

"You met Harold?"

Logan sat up with alarming speed. "Ha-aar-roolll-d." He murmured, drawing out each letter. "That's... very interesting." He steepled his fingers and stared over the tips at her. "I've hired squads of private detectives, developed facial recognitions programs specifically to scan the internet for his face, compiled every single 'Man in the Suit' legend available, and I finally learn his name within fifteen minutes of walking into your office."

"It... one of the people they helped... mentioned him." Max stammered, surprised by the man's intense attention. "I don't know much, just that he was insanely wealthy, and something of a hacker."

"'Something of a hacker...' she says." Pierce murmured, closing his eyes. "He was something of _the god_ of hackers. I'm not sure I can convey to your uninitiated mind," he said, opening his eyes, "exactly _how_ good this guy was. I mean, I'm a genius, but this... 'Harold?' He could have made me his _bitch_."

Max blinked. "Really?"

Logan cocked his head. "I feel like you're not getting that thing I just told you. I've spent the last three years hunting this guy and I've come up with nothing. Me. Nothing. Zip. Nada. The guy must've crapped all over the internet, but I never even picked up a whiff." A snort. "Shit, forget _could have._ He _did_ make me his bitch."

"Er..."

"Take 'John Riley.'" Pierce held up a finger. "I've got search bots specifically devoted to finding that face. Not a one of them picked up anything until your little obit piece. Yet." He held up another finger. "Five minutes surfing will reveal that a mug shot of 'John Riley' has been in the police department database for a bit over two years now. He's probably been in a few newcasts too. That..." he shook his head. "I don't even know how you would begin to do that. A counter search-engine? Something that watched specifically for information and masked it?" Another shake of his head. "Made. Me. His. _Bitch_."

"How did you even manage to meet him?" Max asked. "He seems to stay in the background, mostly."

"Tricked John." Pierce fell back on the couch with a smirk. "Pretended to fall asleep then followed him after he left the apartment. I've had practice dodging security guards." He scratched his nose. "Scrawny guy with glasses and a limp, though I'm guessing you know that already." Max nodded, though neither Zoe nor Mira had mentioned the limp. "Didn't give me more than two sentences, and that was basically to tell me to shut up. Paranoid bastard. Probably the one who smashed the tracker."

Max frowned. "The what?"

Pierce gave a lazy wave of his hand. "I gave John a watch as a thank-you present. Didn't tell him about the GPS tracker inside, but a half-hour after I leave him..." The hand dropped. "...tracker goes dead. Had to have been Harold. I hid that shit GOOD."

Max's eyes narrowed in thought. "When you say you hid it well..."

"I didn't say I hid it WELL." Pierce held up a finger. "I said I hid that shit GOOD."

Max gave him a look. "When you say you hid that shit WELL, would they have had to break the watch to get to it?"

"Probably."

"This watch... what was it worth?"

"Two million."

"Two _MILLION?"_

"Or something." Pierce shrugged. "It was only my life."

Max decided to let it go. "So the parts to fix the watch... they would also be expensive? And rare?"

"Well no du—" Pierce stopped in mid-answer. An intrigued look spread across his face.

"Could you, perhaps," Max said, "trace the unique parts needed to fix this particular watch?"

* * *

"So it was yours." Lou Mitchell, an elderly bearded man with a queer twinkle in his eye, looked at them over the counter. "Thought it was a bit flashy for Harold."

"It was a treasured memento of our time together. I'm hurt he just gave it away like that." Pierce was slumped over the glass case, tilting his head at a bizarre angle to look at the watch nestled within.

"He didn't." Mitchell shrugged. "He gave it to me to fix up. Technically, it's still waiting for him."

"And how long has it been 'waiting?'" Max cocked her head.

"Eh, 'bout three years." Mitchell said, with a shamefaced shrug. "Gotten a lot of offers for it, but... well."

Max gave a little nod and glanced around. "Nice place."

"Practically rebuilt it from scratch." Mitchell grinned, looking around. "The watch came with a discretionary account for 'necessary parts and equipment,' used it to get the place back on its feet."

"Won't last." Pierce muttered derisively, head still slumped against the case. "Who wears watches anymore?"

Mitchell frowned at him. "I get ten kids a week who walk in here with their sweater-vests and rimmed glasses for me to patch up their off-beat pocketwatches. Of course..." He made a face. "...now I'm getting all sorts of pencil pushers who think I know how to fix their computer-watches..." A sigh, and a shake of the head. "Eh. It's a hobby, really. I get more income from the diner these days."

"Oh?" Pierce raised an eyebrow.

"To get back to the thing with the casino." Max said, dragging them back on track. "You met Harold—and John, I'm assuming."

"And Detective Fusco, and that Leon kid, yes, yes."

"Leon?"

* * *

"How big was this conspiracy?" Max grumbled, studying the sketch Mitchell had provided them with. "Seems like every person I visit there's a new partner." She sighed. "They must have trusted this Leon, to give him this much money."

"What, five million? Psh, small potatoes, sweetheart." Pierce rolled his eyes, dropping languidly into the car. "I flush money like that down the toilet. That's probably what this Leon guy is. The toilet."

"We're not going to find out anything about _what_ he was until we find out _who_ he is." Max pointed out, dropping into the passenger seat. The smooth leather molded to her body and she let out a small grin. She could get used to working a case with a flamboyant billionaire. "I'll talk to some of my friends in the NYPD."

"Hey babe." Pierce said.

Max blinked and looked over to see the billionaire, smartphone pressed to his ear.

"It's going great, thanks. Hey Emily, the picture... You find him?" A warm—almost genuine—smile spread across his face. "Awesome. You're the best, honey. Right, see you later."

Pierce hung up the phone. Looking over, he saw Max staring at him. He arched an eyebrow. "Did I suddenly sprout antenna or something?"

Max grinned. "Emily-Emily Morton, right? Developer of A-love-erithm? Your business partner?"

"...Yeah." Pierce shrugged. "I go to her with questions, sometimes. Because we're business partners." He turned to look at his phone. "Leon's got an account on our site. No address, but the site matched him romantically to a Candi Peterson at a West End address." He turned around again to look at her. "Emily looked it up for me. Is it that weird for me to call her?"

"It's weird for you to call her 'babe.'"

"I call YOU 'babe.'"

"You call ME 'sweetheart.' You called HER 'babe.' And 'honey.'"

"So?" Pierce shrugged again, a trifle stiffly. "You got a point, Lois Lane?"

Max was still grinning. "Your A-Love-ir-ithm account... what's it say about you and Emily?"

"Every dealer knows better than to use their own product, BABE." Pierce wagged a finger at her. Reaching to the steering wheel, he started up the car. "Glasses and I have way too good a business relationship to spoil it with something like sex."

Max just kept grinning. "Whatever you say, HONEY."

Pierce glared at her.

* * *

"Le-leon?" The mousy-looking brunette staring back at them through the crack in the doorway shook her head. "N-no, I don't know anyone by that name."

Maxine and Pierce stared back at her, unimpressed. Pierce's bodyguard, "Gorilla" (as Pierce had introduced him), kept his foot planted between the door and frame.

Candi Peterson's eyes darted from one to the other, over to Gorilla and then back down the hallway behind her. "I'm s-serious, I don't..."

"Honey, I deal with professional liars on a daily basis." Maxine folded her arms across her chest.

"And I deal with daily lies on a professional basis." Pierce added, Leon's Alove-erithm account clearly displayed on his phone.

"Seriously." Max shook her head. "Don't even try."

Candi kept up the brave mask for a few seconds more before it crumpled entirely. "Look she said, leaning forward in a whisper. "If you can just tell me how much he owes you, I can..."

"Honey, I swear, I don't owe anyone anything!" A short, Korean 20-something man suddenly appeared from the left, grabbing the young woman by the shoulder.

"Well, apparently you forgot someone." The woman hissed back, nervously.

Leon cast a nervous glance up at the others. Maxine noticed his left arm was in a cast. "Look... just let me handle this myself, okay? I'll pay them off and..."

"With what, your other arm?" Candi asked. "Or maybe a nose. or a finger, or..."

"We're... not here about money." Max interjected. "Leon doesn't owe us anything."

Candi stopped and looked at them. "He doesn't?"

"I don't?" Leon seemed equally surprised.

"Nothing except some answers." Pierce pocketed his phone and grinned meaningfully. "We're really more curious about Johnnie-boy and Harold."

"Harold? Johnnie-boy?" Candi looked from one to the other uncomprehendingly.

But Leon had gone pale. "I-I-I..." He stepped back a little. "...I don't know who that is..."

"Again. My job, his hobby." Max pointed at Pierce. "How about you let us in, so we can have this conversation in private?"

* * *

"I used to be... well, I was a flake, basically." Leon shrugged. "A welsh accountant. I would be hired to manage money from... less reputable firms, and I would steal from them." A wince. "And I was pretty stupid about it. I mean, I could hide the money well enough. I just wasn't very good at hiding that I was doing it."

"Which means a lot of these 'less reputable firms' started trying to kill you." Max could see where this was going.

"If you're here about John, you know what he did." Leon shrugged. "I was a... regular customer."

"Regular? You did this more than once?" Maxine raised her eyebrows

Pierce seemed enormously amused by the whole situation. "I'll bet John loved that." He smirked. "He's got a soft spot for people who willfully endanger themselves."

"Good thing for you." Maxine noted.

Leon gave a half-hearted shrug. "I guess. John isn't always exactly always gentle about how he saves people..."

The others looked at him.

Leon caught on. "Well... I mean, I was grateful and all, but... it wasn't just that... like... they started making me do things for them, too. Hiding accounts, posing as a paramedic..."

"Handling millions of dollars as a high-roller at a casino." Max finished for him. "Yes, sounds like you had a rough gig." She looked around Candi's high-class apartment. "Seems to have worked out all right for you."

"Those guys scared me straight." Leon shook his head. "The stuff they had me doing—I got out of it. Stopped robbing from guys, they stopped having to rescue me."

"Gangs trying to kill you didn't scare you straight." Pierce frowned. "But posing as a millionaire gambler did?"

"And also Charlotte." Leon looked up at the girl and smiled.

She rolled her eyes. "Candi. My MOM calls me Charlotte."

"Because your mom is great with names."

It was a pity she had no reason to publish this particular story, Maxine reflected. "So how did you two meet?" She asked.

"At a strip club." Candi volunteered. "I was a dancer."

"Oh my gosh, would you stop telling people that." Leon turned on his girlfriend. "I mean, yes, but we met at the bar during your off hours. I had no idea you were one of the performers."

"You didn't seem to mind it either." Candi wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Max looked around the lush apartment. "You must be quite a dancer."

"She IS." Leon assured them.

"My... dad helps some with the bills too." Candi glanced away.

"Her dad's the head of Peterson Financial." Leon answered.

"Ah."

"I'm in the sociological graduate studies program here at UT," Candi elaborated. "I just do the dancer stuff for extra cash."

"Mind giving us a demonstration?" Pierce asked.

"Hey-!"

"How'd you break the arm?" Max asked, stopping the conversation before it could get too derailed.

Leon winced. "Ah. That was... an old account of mine. Some Irish guys."

"Nothing to worry about anymore." Candi said. "I paid them off. They wouldn't have had to even break his arm if FastBucks McGee here had TOLD me they'd called him up."

Leon squirmed a little. "It was just a little debt... I thought I could talk it out with them. Besides, you'd already handled the Russians last week and the Casa Nostra the week before that..."

"Jeez, kid, really?" Pierce raised an eyebrow.

"Old accounts!" Leon insisted. "Minor debts. Not embezzling."

"So, you didn't break the arm by slamming it in a door during your escape from an exploding building." Maxine said.

"Uh... no?" Leon said. "That's awfully specific. Again, what's all this about?"

Max showed him the picture.

Leon's whole body went slack. His eyes went vacant and he slumped back in the chair. "Oh." He said.

Candi touched his shoulder. "Baby..."

Leon took her hand and just held it for a few moments.

"H-how?" He asked, finally.

"We're not sure." Maxine answered. "Honestly, I was hoping you might know. There's evidence of a survivor who broke their arm flying the scene. You didn't...?"

Leon shook his head. "The last time I saw John and Harold was a few years ago, right before I met Candi. After that I... didn't need saving." He looked up with sudden understanding. "You... did he...?"

"Both of us." Logan answered, with odd soberness.

"We're..." Maxine paused for a moment. What were they trying to do, exactly? "...trying to get a picture of what they did... who they helped."

Leon shook his head. "I can't help much with that... I just worked on the periphery... they didn't really trust me." There was the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Suppose I can't really blame them for that..." He thought a bit. "The time I was a paramedic, I helped them rescue this Middle-Eastern-looking chick... I could do a sketch..."

"Thanks." Maxine smiled, but inwardly she had a sinking feeling she already knew what the result would be. One of the bodies at the scene had been a Middle-Eastern female.

Still, there was one final thing Leon could help them with. "Would you mind taking a ride with us?" She asked.

* * *

"They had this library they operated out of, that I visited a few times." Leon said later, in the car. "Always blindfolded, though. Like I said, John could be rough."

"Don't worry about it." Maxine shrugged. Hopefully their next stop could help with that.

"It had a killer computer array." Leon said. "Like four or five screens. And one of those crime-board things like what you see on TV, with pictures of the people they were helping."

"How did they know who to help?" Pierce said.

Leon shrugged dismissively. "Never asked. They were good, though. Usually knew when I was in danger before I did."

"I get the feeling that's not quite so impressive." Maxine muttered.

"We're here." Pierce announced.

The mercedes screeched (Pierce didn't do anything quietly) to a halt outside the building. Car doors opened and slammed. The three of them trotted up the stairs and pushed through the doors. The guard at the desk eyed them, but at the sight of Maxine, waved them through. Threading their way through the desks, they approached their object.

Detective Lionel Fusco was sitting at his desk, turning a strange bobblehead police doll over in his hands. His face looked old and weary, the fat collapsed into limp lines. As they approached, Fusco turned his head.

He saw Leon.

Fusco heaved a sigh. He set down the doll. "All right, newshound." He said. "Waddaya wanna know?"

* * *

 **A/N:** This took a while, mostly because of the ending. I kept wanting to find a way to insert Jem, Harold's ward (aka the Russian wannabe spy girl who touched Shaw's heart). I finally decided it would raise too many questions, and that all I wanted to do with Jem was really a separate story by itself. So maybe I'll save that for next time.


	6. The Obituary

**Trending: Vigilante Hero Cop's Funeral to be Held Saturday**

* * *

 _Manhattan Tribune_

by Maxine Angelis

* * *

The funeral for John Riley, Homicide Detective of the 12th Precinct will be held at North Island cemetery, at 12:00 pm this Saturday. Police Commissioner Reagan is expected to attend, along with several section chiefs, and the eulogy will be given by Captain Harris, his commanding officer.

Riley's coworkers spoke of him as a reserved, but remarkably efficient officer of the law. He holds the precinct record for most cases closed in a single day, and his street smarts were second to none. "He was some sort of crazy bad-ass." His partner, Det. Lionel Fusco commented. "Pulled me out of some dark places." Other co-workers of Riley echoed this sentiment. "...[The] man was a beast. Tore through recruits like they were tissue paper" reported Det. Dani Silva, a former student during Riley's stint as an instructor in the Academy. Riley was new to Homicide, having recently transferred from an undercover detail in Narcotics. All who worked with John Riley knew of him as a dedicated and talented officer of great moral integrity.

What was apparently not known, even to his superiors, was that during his undercover time in Narcotics, Riley engaged in a secret side-project—rescuing potential victims of gang violence, disguised in nothing more than a well-tailored suit.

New York citizens are doubtless familiar with the urban legend of the 'Man in the Suit,' a curiously well-dressed and good-looking man who shows up in the nick of time to rescue those in peril. The subject of many tabloids, message boards, and Youtube videos, the tales of the Man in the Suit are as varied as they are fanciful. While it is impossible to know how many of the stories surrounding "The Man in the Suit" are true, (or to what extent they can be considered reliable), they seem to have had their root in Riley.

Upon viewing our recent obituary, a number of readers came forward, offering stories of how Riley had saved them from various dangers. Ian Murphy, who regular readers will remember from the Wellington Scandal two years ago, recognized him immediately, and Scott Powell, famous contributor to the legend of the Man in the Suit, positively identified Riley as the man who broke him out of the prison transport. Most notably, tech magnate Logan Pierce came forward to share his story of how Riley saved his life. Further investigation produced even more stories, as well as verifying the volunteered narratives. Due to concerns of privacy and space, we have chosen not to recount all of the stories here (though a selected narratives can be found here), but they all have several features in common—Riley, under an assumed name and wearing an impeccable suit, approaches them, uses his skills to intervene in the deadly peril threatening them, and then disappears. Most never saw him again.

The other notable feature of the stories is that most fall during the time when Riley was working undercover in Narcotics. It seems that Riley, while hiding amongst the gangs of New York, often heard of various "hits" being arranged. Unable, as an undercover officer, to act as a policeman, Riley adopted the "Man in the Suit" persona as a means of saving those the police could not.

It is as of yet unclear how Riley obtained his information—through brilliant detective work, a wide array of contacts, or just simple hearsay. Several witnesses mentioned a curiously well-informed accomplice of Riley's, referred to only as "Harold." Possibly a private friend or contact of Rileys, or even an employer—some mysterious ganglord who fought his enemies by saving their victims—"Harold" has yet to be identified, but he most likely was deeply involved in Riley's intelligence network.

According to some accounts, Riley assisted Detective Carter in her exposure of the HR organization two years ago, which may have prompted his return to the police force. Apparently, after rejoining the police force, Riley never told anyone about his days as a protector of the innocent. "He pulled me into some off-the-books cases ." Fusco confirmed. "Never told me anything about what he used to do, though." Perhaps Riley felt, in the near wake of HR's breakup, it would be seen in the wrong light. Perhaps he was worried about the repercussions of some of his exploits, such as his rumored association with Carl Elias. Perhaps he was simply embarrassed at all the attention—friends confirm he was a very private person. In some cases, he even asked witnesses to remain quiet about his intervention—doubtless in the hopes that it would not get back to the cartels he was infiltrating.

Detective Fusco could only offer the sketchiest outline of what happened at the high-rise where Riley met his fate, and by the request of the NYPD, we have redacted much of his account in order not to interfere with what is still an ongoing investigation. However, though he could offer little elaboration as to the past or motivations of his former partner, or the circumstances of his death, Fusco was quite vocal in his praise of the man himself. "Wonderboy [Riley] was one of the best partners I ever had, and I've had some swell partners." He said. "A real stand-up guy. Never asked for anything, and never held anything back. World'll probably never know the half of what he did, but they oughta be grateful all the same."

Certainly New York City should be grateful, to the man who gave us a legend, and more... gave many of our citizens their lives. In this cynical age, it's a comfort to know that some myths, at least, are true.

 **26M** **likes** **756K** **shares** **157K** **comments**

* * *

 **Top comments**

 **Theresa Whitaker** **commented:** My family was killed when I was fourteen. I lived in hiding for two years before the killer came after me. John saved me, put him away, and gave me a new life with my aunt. He and Harold were the best people I ever met. I never knew how to thank them. EDIT: Screw all you people calling me a troll in the comments. I don't care if you believe it or not. (128 replies)

 **Nick Fredericks** **commented:** Bullshit. No way some guy just did this while doing some undercover routine. This is some overactive emotional hero-worship cub scout reporting here. Whatever happened to old-fashioned detective work and holding our "protectors" accountable? (438 replies)

 **Hayden Price** **replied:** No, this guys real. And he's an asshole. I notice it doesn't mention the stories of the lives he screwed up.

 **Rachel** **Nanninga** **replied:** Every year some idiot reporter does a rehash of the same old clickbait article. They used to be clever. Now they're just sad.

 **NYPD** **commented:** The  NYPD has published an official response to this article. View it here. (265 replies)

 **Liz McInroy** **commented:** Holy cow, I met this guy once! Like, he wasn't saving me, but he came into the hair salon. I thought it was weird how he left so quickly. (173 replies)

 **Daniel Drake** **commented:** My wife and I both owe this man a great debt of gratitude. Every word in here is true. I'm just sorry it didn't come out while he was alive. (243 replies)

 **Robin Bankston** **commented:** To lern the REAL story bhind the Man in the Suit, Vigilance, adn the iLluminati, visit my siet http/thetruth/xps... (103 replies)

 **Grace Hendricks** **commented:** oh god


	7. The Funeral

**The Funeral**

The eulogy was terrible.

"I don't understand," the woman next to Max whispered. "I thought the paper said he was some sort of hero."

"It did." Max agreed, staring up at the front. Captain Moreno was obviously reading a boilerplate speech someone higher up had written, and was just as obviously pissed off about it.

"But they haven't mentioned any of that."

"No, they haven't." Max'd never had great expectations for the eulogy. She'd been to a lot of funerals, and eulogies tended to be the dullest part. Important to the family and friends, doubtless, but meaningless if you were a reporter who only knew what'd been in the obituary.

"The article said he had a partner... are they burying him here too?" The woman toyed with her hands. Her clothes were surprisingly casual—she must be just here to gawk, not to mourn—and very rumpled, like she'd spent the night in them.

Judging peoples clothes were how Max usually managed to get through eulogies Police funerals were a little less interesting for this than most—everyone was wearing uniforms. But even there, there was a difference between Captain Moreno's glittering and finely pressed uniform, Det. Silva's new and ill-fitting one, and Fusco's frantically-laundered-and-dry-cleaned-but-still-obviously-rumpled ensemble. And there were generally civilians, too. Dr. Campbell's dress looked expensive, but the effect was rather spoiled by her streaked make-up and red eyes. Zoe, sitting next to her, was a much more cohesive package of careful and expensive taste. Only the unnatural stiffness of her expression jarred with the image.

Max had been to enough funerals to have a specific "funeral dress"—black, of course, but not slinky-party-black, more flat, mournful black. You couldn't have a low neckline or be showing a lot of leg at a funeral. It wasn't totally different from Zoe's, or Iris's, or Mira Dobrica's (sitting next to her).

You could tell the people like them, people who had been to enough funerals to have a specific "funeral suit." Ian Wellington, for instance, was dressed in a simple, elegant black suit, with a white shirt and black tie. Oddly enough, Logan Pierce's looked exactly the same. Scott Powell had something similar, but it was clearly new, bought just for this occasion. Usually a person's "funeral suit" was something they'd first got for a very special death. Taylor Carter (who Max recognized from the papers a few years ago) wore the same suit he'd worn to his mother's funeral.

Most young people hadn't had enough death in their life for a funeral suit, and went for the nearest equivalent—the just-off navy-blue suit that blonde stock broker was wearing, or the slinky party dress the Asian woman five rows back had on. A defiant-looking blonde had apparently had nothing more mournful than a leatherjacket and black slacks. Others tried to do something "different..." Max's eyes were offended by the African-American teenager in the thick-rimmed glasses and sweater vest, who seemed to be attempting a "trendy" funeral look. Leon had decided to wear a black shirt and black tie with the black suit, and it just ended up looking more tacky than mournful. The dark-skinned executive woman, though—her business suit wasn't quite mournful, but much more fitting to the atmosphere.

Older people were interesting. Some of them wore "funeral suits" that had gone out of fashion years ago, like Lou Mitchell standing there in his triple-breasted suit and waistcoat, but others of them had clearly been to so many funerals that they no longer saw them as special. Max recognized a judge—Reynolds?—who wore the requisite black but a bright blue shirt underneath.

"Excuse me?" The woman was back. "Harold? The man's partner? Is he being buried here too today?"

Max sighed inwardly. She wondered how this gawker had managed to get a spot so close. Max's own contacts hadn't managed to get her better than ten rows from the front. She didn't WANT to know how Zoe'd managed to score her position right at the front. Every chair was occupied, some with businessmen, some with statesmen, some with celebrities. And beyond the chairs, a sea of black-clad mourners spilled onto the green grass, up to the hill and beyond Max's sight.

"There is no Harold." she told the woman, maybe a little curtly. "No body, anyway. The other corpses from the explosion couldn't be identified, so the morgue incinerated them."

There was a silence, then: "Oh."

Something in the tone made Max glance over and take a closer look at the woman. Her red hair was almost certainly dyed, but what was more interesting was the way her red-rimmed eyes were staring desperately toward the front, as if searching for something.

Max revised her 'gawker' analysis. "I'm sorry, I never asked... who are you?"

"Grace. Grace Hendricks. I... ah... manage a... an art gallery..." Grace was staring straight ahead, barely paying attention.

"Really." This woman seemed significant somehow. "Tell me, are you..."

But she had to stop. The eulogy was over, and silence had fallen. Captain Moreno stepped down. There was the honor guard, the 21-gun salute, the bagpipe solo. Fusco stepped up to the casket, smoothed his hand over it.

He looked over to Zoe and nodded.

Zoe Morgan, political fixer, rose stiffly to her feet, pulling Iris alongside. She stepped up to the coffin and laid a single red rose atop it. Then she turned around, looking almost challengingly at the crowd of policemen.

Or no, Max suddenly realized. Not at them. At the crowd behind them.

Judge Reynolds stepped forward. An officer tried to interpose, but between Zoe and the Judge, he had no chance. The venerable man, his son beside him, stepped up to the coffin and laid down his rose alongside Zoe's.

Directly behind Judge Morgan was one of the city's leading businessmen. Directly behind him was a hispanic taxicab driver. One by one, each approached the casket and laid a rose atop it.

Maxine watched them come forward. Most were just faces to her, but a few stood out. Lou Mitchell, hobbling on a cane, nearly fell over as he placed the flower. Leon, Candi on his arm. Mira, of course, and Scott Powell, with his family.

But even more interesting were the ones she didn't recognize. A richly-dressed young woman with a hard face. A dark skinned teenager in a trendy sweater-vest. A small girl, barely five, who looked up at her (grand?)parents for approval as she laid the rose. Another girl, this one around twelve, but apparently alone, face screwed tight in concentrated restraint. A coffee-skinned streetrunner, jaw jutting in what Max recognized as a defiant effort to hold back tears. A man and woman, obviously married, who kept glancing at each other in the ceremony as if reminded of something. A woman and another woman, also obviously married, the one with the flower being supported by her partner. A richly-dressed Hispanic girl.

On and on they came, and the police officers were starting to look a little shocked. There were a few variations—some laid a black rose, some laid white ones. Maxine half-expected Pierce to swamp the casket in bouquets or do something ostentatious like a gold-covered rose, but he (and Amy after him) laid a single simple red blossom. It was just as well—there was hardly room for any more. The coffin was nearly smothered in them.

Max hadn't brought a rose, but Logan pressed a spare one into her hand. She felt a little self-conscious as she marched up—following a middle-aged man that she took to be some sort of janitor—and dropped it gingerly atop the growing mound.

She heard a heavy sigh behind her, and turned to see Fusco, a white rose in his hand. Almost awkwardly, he tossed it onto the pile.

There was a silence. The policemen looked nervously at each other. The gawkers swept about with their smartphones, looking to see if anyone else was coming. Off in the distance, the sounds of the city could be heard: cars honking, dogs barking, the wind blowing through empty streets.

Zoe looked over at the funeral director and gave a curt nod of permission.

The funeral director pushed a button. The mountain of roses slowly flattened as the casket beneath them started to descend—a few rolled off, but bystanders quickly picked them up and tossed them back on—then buckled in the middle and poured into the open grave, a cascading flow of red petals.

And then it was over.

Captain Moreno found her as the crowd began to break up. "You ought to know." She muttered, shaking her hand. "That article of yours is sending Fusco through the wringer. Top brass is pretty pissed about how stupid this whole thing is making them look."

Max winced. She had been worried about that. "So far as I know," she said, "everything happened while he was in Narcotics. Nothing came up while he was working as Fusco's partner." Technically true, though Max had to wonder about Det. Silva's "happy accident."

Captain Moreno grunted. "Yeah, I read that too." She stated, glancing away. "Must have been doing SOMETHING during all those hours he was missing, though."

"Will Fusco be okay?" Max asked. The detective hadn't seemed too worried about the possible scandal when she'd mentioned it. He was something of a hero—if anyone could weather this, it would be him.

"Probably." Moreno agreed. "A slap on the wrist, but that's about it. Just the brass blowing off steam." Captain Moreno stuck out her hand. "I gotta get going, Max." Max shook it. There was just a second's pause, and then the captain said, "Damn fine article."

She let go, and moved away.

Max looked around. The police assembly was breaking up, but most of the crowd of strangers were still hanging around, in a sort of guilty silence. A few started to mill around, others made their way across the cemetery, apparently looking for other loved ones. Light talk began to filter through the air.

There was a girl, Maxine noticed, standing on the crest of the hill overlooking the grave. A short brunette, in a rough jacket, her left arm in a sling and some bandaging on her right shoulder. She made no move to approach the grave, or the crowd, but she was very clearly watching both.

On a whim, Max approached the girl. "Can I help you?" She asked.

The girl glanced at her but did not say anything. She was young—a little over twenty, Max guessed. She had a VERY intense look to her.

"I'm Maxine Angelis." A grunt was her only answer. "From the paper."

Another grunt. "Claire." The girl said at length. That seemed to be the only information she was willing to share.

"Are you all right?" Max probed a little deeper. "Your arm-"

"It's fine." The girl said, curtly.

It looked broken. Max waited a few moments before trying another tack. "Was John a... friend of yours?" She asked.

"Not really." The girl said, turning back to the hill.

Max decided to test her. "Was Harold?"

A sidelong glance, but nothing more. Still Max was satisfied. Anything less than utter confusion proved her theory. This girl knew. "There's... a wake being held." She ventured. "Some of us are getting together at Dobrica's to..."

"They didn't have to die, you know." The girl suddenly burst out. "They could have joined, they could have..." She broke off whatever she was saying. "I told him..." She whispered, almost on the verge of tears.

Max blinked at her, mind whirling.

"I told him it was stupid. I told him it was pointless." The girl shook her head.

"I... I should go." The girl announced, stepping back. "I need to go..." Hesitation. She seemed unsure. "I need to go." She repeated.

"Where?" Max asked.

"Somewhere. Anywhere. Not here." The girl passed a hand through her hair. She looked down at the grave, one last time. "They didn't have to." She repeated. "No one wanted them to. No one asked them to save me."

* * *

 **A/N:** I apologize for this taking so long. It's short, and actually a version of it was already written when I completed the last chapter (this was basically the second thing I wrote, after the first chapter). But... well, it's the funeral. I wanted to do it right, and I had too many threads to fill. It kept feeling not quite right.

And then I went to a funeral last Saturday. And things fell into place. It's still not quite where I'd like it to be, but it's the closest I can do.

And also, I decided that this is not, as I originally planned, going to be the last chapter. Because you don't call a story The Wake and then not actually show the wake that comes after the funeral. So that'll be the last chapter. A final chance to hear the stories.


	8. The Wake

**The Wake**

Max managed to convince the mysterious redhead, "Grace" to come to the Wake, mostly by promises of the food that Mira had arranged (apparently she had delegated the job to some stockbroker, who had made the odd choice of comissioning a food truck owner for the catering ). When pressed, Grace admitted that she hadn't eaten anything since the day before, except a small vanilla ice-cream cone—and that had mostly ended up in the stomach of a mournful-looking stray dog. She just didn't have the appetite, Grace protested.

Appetite or no, Max insisted that the woman get something to sustain her. She looked about ready to collapse, and frail enough for a sufficiently strong breeze to knock her over. Grace finally agreed to follow Max back to _Dobrica_ 's.

The food was delicious—hot burgers and chicken wraps, a far cry from the traditional small sandwiches and egg salad—but Max didn't give Grace much time to load up. She'd had an ulterior motive in convincing Grace to come, and for it to work, she needed to get the woman to the bar Mira had set up on the side.

After some minutes of subtle corraling, Max worked Grace over to the bar, which had already collected a sizeable group. Leon and Logan were nowhere to be seen—they'd probably left already—but Zoe was sitting there among the mourners, and Iris was hovering shyly on the fringes.

Grace didn't drink, but Max wasn't too concerned. A bar's atmosphere was nearly as important as its products. "So." She said, raising a beer to her mouth. "What's your story?"

* * *

 _I... well, it was very strange. I don't... you wouldn't believe me if I told you._

 _No, I mean, it was so bizarre. And anyway, it couldn't have been..._

 _Well... all right. He beat up this man... my driver, actually, the driver I'd called for my car service. We were just talking normally and all of a sudden—John Riley, you said his name was? He told me it was Stills. I mean, I found out that was a lie, but... Anyway, he attacked the driver. Apparently he'd been trying to kidnap me—the driver that is. He and this strange woman brought me to a police station—yes, with Detective Fusco, exactly. And then there was this other strange woman there... They were all so sure that my life was in danger, but no one would explain why. They tried to move me, too, but we got in an accident, and..._

 _I was... kidnapped, I guess, is the best way of explaining it. But it was so bizarre. I mean, I guess I don't really know what a normal kidnapping is like, but... it was just this old man. He had this English accent. We just sat around, drinking tea and talking about... all sorts of things. The whole thing was so horribly surreal, like some dream. I still have nightmares about it sometimes._

 _And then they just... let me go. I was blindfolded, but I don't know why... all they did was have me walk straight across a bridge, and the next thing I knew Detective Fusco was taking the blindfold off. John must have made some deal with them... or maybe he was always working with them, I don't know. But he told me I had this new job, in Italy managing an art gallery. I hadn't even interviewed for it. I don't know how he got it for me. There was a false passport and identity all set up._

 _No, I've no idea. The whole thing... I could never understand it. And I tried. It... it just overwhelmed me. I have never been so entirely confused. Sometimes I wonder if the whole thing was some... strange fever dream. And it ended with me waking up in Italy with a new job and identity, somehow._

 _But I don't know. I really don't know. I don't think I ever will._

 _Um... you mentioned he had a friend... Harold?_

 _Well, it..._

 _I mean, it's ridiculous. It couldn't really..._

 _I used to... know a Harold. Nothing... really strange about that, I guess. Harold's a pretty common name, right? And my Harold... there was... there was an accident. Quite a long time ago. So it's really... sort of stupid of me to think they could be the same person._

 _It's just... the Englishman. He... he seemed weirdly interested in Harold. I mean, he seemed weirdly interested in everything, so that doesn't mean anything by itself. But it was the only direct question he asked, and the only thing he didn't seem to already know. It just stood out... I mean, why ask about someone who's been dead for so long?_

 _And..._

 _There was someone else. On the... I think it must have been a bridge, where they released me. I nearly tripped and fell over, and someone... caught me. I don't know who. They never said anything. Not Stills—John, sorry. And I can't think it was one of their men either... It's... wishful thinking but... with the man's questions I guess I..._

 _I asked Stills. It was a crazy question, but with everything that'd happened, it made sense at the time. I asked him if he'd known Harold. If Harold had anything to do with what happened._

 _He said that he knew Harold loved me._

 _I can't help thinking... how did he know that?_

 _I don't know. But I saw your article and... and I had to come. It's silly, but... I couldn't shake the thought that..._

 _Well. What does it matter anyway? I'll never know now._

* * *

 _Maxine Angelis? Yes, I remember you. You interviewed me on the Peerson case, back in '07. Not the most favorable portrait._

 _Yes, that was AJ. He's fourteen. Esme took him back to the house, he barely remembers... ah..._

 _I suppose I may as well tell you. It doesn't much matter now. It was some sort of Russian gang—involved with a case I was trying. Vehicular manslaughter, an open-and-shut case, it seemed... well, not inconsequential, but isolated. And then, as I was coming out of the courthouse, I got their call. They had AJ._

 _I collapsed. There's no other word for it. The world just... it was crashing down all around me. My legs went nerveless; it was all I could do not to fall over. I sat down on the front steps of the courthouse and felt like I was drowning. Everyone around me was flowing past, unknowing and uncaring. I've never felt so crushingly alone, so suffocatingly helpless._

 _And then this man sat next to me. And he said: "Let's figure out how we're going to get your son back."_

 _As simple as that. The man was a rock. I was falling to pieces, and he stood by and helped me through the worst week of my life. I couldn't think straight. But he did, and that's what saved us. My son wouldn't still be alive if not him._ I _wouldn't be alive if not for him._

 _He didn't ask for anything. He actually specifically asked that I NOT talk about it. I always wanted to... I felt like... he'd given me my son. I needed to give him something back for that._

 _And it turns out that all I can do is show up to his funeral._

 _Thank you for giving me that, at least._

* * *

 _No, is all right. I know I look terrible. I took red-eye last night, fly in just this morning. No have... I have had... no sleep for 20 hours._

 _I'm... sorry. My english is usually better. I have been too long away, I think. I spent most of my teenage years here in New York. My father was the Brazilian ambassador, you understand._

 _Oh, yes. He was new bodyguard of me. My boyfriend, he tried to have me killed. John saved my life. I just thought at first that he was very good at his job, but... thinking back I started to realize... it was very weird. Eventually I figured it out, but... I was back in Ecuador by then. I set up google alert for the phrase "man in the suit," it alerted me about your article. Dropped class to come here, but is no matter... macroeconomics is not terribly interesting in any case._

 _Well, it nearly ruined men for me. But also... John... he was so selfless. It made me ashamed, how I lived. Is hard, in any case, to keep partying after someone tried to kill you. But I felt as though my life had been saved for a reason. And if John was doing so much good with his..._

 _I want to go into politics. Not an ambassador, like my father, but something. Anything, so long as I can help people. It seems the least I can do, after what John did for me._

* * *

 _Us? Um... banking. We met them..._

 _They saved us from a bank robbery._

 _Right, yes. Saved us._

 _We were hostages._

 _Not the robbers._

 _Obviously._

* * *

 _Just last year. I had been... well, I suppose I can tell you now. I had some... trouble with the Brotherhood—a gang of sorts. My son was kidnapped._

 _I owe more to Harold, really. John helped—he saved my son, but Harold... Harold was a wonder. They had ordered me to put together a communication network, and I had no idea how to complete it. Harold perfected the work I started, gave me a final product to present to the Brotherhood. Without him, my son would have been killed on the spot._

 _I think he may have been a professor? I don't know. A brilliant engineer, certainly. I wonder to think what he could have created._

* * *

 _He shot somebody at our wedding._

 _No, it was my ex, he had a gun... it was just a moment. He literally drove up, shot Thomas, said congratulations, and then drove away. Couldn't have been more than two minutes._

 _It stuck in my head. I mean, it was just so bizarre._

* * *

 _Heck, no, I'm not one of you. Maybe I am. I dunno._

 _I just knew Riley. Not as "The Man in the Suit," just as Riley, this pain-in-the-ass, weirdly persistent cop who opened up a can of whoop-ass like no one's business. Got me on the trail of this major collar... personal business. Anyway. Got me out of a tight spot all right, but I just figured he was good as his job. Saw he'd been shot up, thought I should drop by._

 _But hearing all this... damn. Guess I was luckier than I thought._

* * *

 _I was dead. Now I'm not._

* * *

 _They stopped me, actually. I was planning to shoot this guy at my high school reunion... long story. They talked me out of it, basically. There was... also some shooting involved. A lot of shooting, actually. These guys with submachine guns came out of nowhere-I never really understood what it was all about._

 _John was there, yes... He was pretending to be this "Frank" guy from our school. Honestly it was more his friend, "Betty," who helped me. Small, middle-eastern? Wonderfully cute, awfully scary? Do you know what happened to her?_

 _I see._

* * *

 _Well... it's maybe a bit odd, but... I sewed him up once, five or so years back. I was just a mortician at the time, working autopsies in the morgue, and this smallish man—Harold, I suppose he must have been—wheeled in your 'Detective Riley' on a stretcher. He'd been shot._

 _I don't know how. Rifle bullet. I didn't ask questions; they paid me too much money, I was half-convinced they'd kill me as soon as I was done. But they just left and I... now I am a doctor._

* * *

 _Naw, I was the first of y'all. This jerkass drug lord messed up my brother, so I was goin' hard for payback, y'dig? My man Reese, he showed up outta nowhere and knocked up those mothers they sent after me. That dude was baaaaaad, girl. Like some sorta superhero. Okami Kurenkyoumi, y'know?_

 _What? Naw, he's this samurai... forget it._

 _Reese was solid. Set me up at this sweet school. Little rough fitting in at first, but I deal. The critics, they dig my whole gangster deal. Really sets me apart from the crowd, y'dig?_

 _Well... I mean, the other guys buy the whole act, yeah. They just know gangsters from movies and such. If I went for real, they wouldn't believe it. It's messed up, I know._

 _Huh? Uh... I guess it must have been his own money. Some sort of trust, I looked it up a few years back. Said it was from my Uncle Ernie, which was bullshit, but I didn't say anything. It was pretty sizeable, I was sort of surprised someone with that kind of cash would be going all vigilante on the streets. Sorta like Batman, but you don't really expect people to act like that, y'know?_

 _That was the thing. Like, I go for this comic-book style in my art, y'know? Sort of an Elijah Price type style, if you're familiar with his work at all. And a lot of the other artists they're all like 'aw,man, that's kid stuff. Them superheroes, they're a lot of bull.'_

 _And I always think: 'No, they ain't. I knew one, and he was hardcore legit.'_

* * *

 _Yes, you perhaps see my picture... I model sometimes._

 _Ah me? No... not here for Riley. I come to see Fusco. He... he save my life, years ago. Where is Fusco?_

 _Many thanks. I go to Fusco now._

* * *

 _I was operating on... I can't even remember now. Some businessman or other. I got a phone call, they said they'd kill her if I didn't botch the operation. I dragged out the surgery as long as possible, but I felt so helpless... I didn't know that I had any choice._

 _I went out to get some air. I was crying, I didn't even hear the other orderly come up behind me. And suddenly, this nurse starts talking to me—saying they're working to save her, just to give them more time_

 _I never saw his face. It wasn't John—she can tell you about him. And Fusco—that article of yours is nice, but their partnership goes back a ways longer. Yeah, I figured you knew already._

 _Things went bad—there was an insider on the operation. The orderly and I... we worked together to save his life._

 _And then I never saw him again._

* * *

Slowly, the crowd thinned. Last toasts were given, people left, stumbled out to their cars. Max was one of the last ones to leave, and shook Mira's hand as the woman was locking up the ballroom.

The parking lot was brightly lit, but largely empty. Grace (who Max had lost track of in all the stories) was standing all alone by the road, staring up at the sky.

Max, without really knowing why, walked over to her. "You all right?" She asked.

"I... I don't know." Grace looked up at her. "I heard so much... in there." She swallowed. "It... it couldn't have been Harold." She said, a desperate smile on her face. "Not... not _my_ Harold, anyway. He died. I know that. And if he hadn't... well, he would have told me. We would have done... whatever it was. Together."

Max just nodded, unsure of what to say.

"But... it did sound like him." Grace smiled. "The little things he..." She broke off. "He... he was sweet, Harold was. And he... he always wanted everyone to be safe."

Max felt she really ought to say something. "He would have wanted you to be safe."

"I wouldn't."

There was really nothing to say to that.

Grace closed her eyes. "It couldn't have been Harold." She repeated. "And I'll never know for sure. But..." little tears trickled out the corners of her eyes. "...if it was... I guess it's good to know... what he died for."

Again, Max felt that she should say something, but couldn't think of anything.

Suddenly a loud bark rang out across the parking lot, saving her the trouble. Grace's face collapsed in annoyance. "How on earth...?" she muttered turning toward the sound.

A mangy-looking German shepherd bounded out of the dark parking lot and ran up to them, wagging its tail eagerly.

"Look, I told you, I don't have any more." Grace addressed the dog. "See?" She spread her hands to indicate their emptiness. "No more! Go bother someone else now!"

The dog stopped in front of Grace, looking up expectantly, still wagging its tail, either ignorant or unimpressed with the woman's diatribe.

"Not your dog?" Max asked. For some reason the dog looked familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on why.

"Seems to think he is." Grace sighed in exasperation. "I should never have given him that ice-cream cone."

"He's got some sort of harness." Max bent and fingered the tag. "Hm. No owner. Just 'Bear.'" She stood up and dusted off her hands. "That's weird." She looked over at Grace. "You could drop him off at Animal Control."

"Could." Grace agreed.

Bear looked up and whined.

Grace rolled her eyes. "Oh, fine." She said, shaking her head. "Come on, then." She snapped her fingers and the dog jumped to its feet. "Just one night, okay?" She insisted, starting to walk. "My place in Italy doesn't allow dogs. I just don't like thinking of you sleeping out here tonight."

Max grinned. "Goodbye, Grace." She called.

Grace gave a distracted wave. She was already disappearing into the darkness of the parking lot, Bear trailing behind her obediently.

Walking alone through the parking lot slightly unnerved Max—a lingering issue she'd had since her near-death experiences. The blinking security cameras around her were some comfort, but she still tensed when she saw the figure standing by the curb, then relaxed as she recognized Fusco, occupied at a small booth, not even looking in her direction.

As she got into her car, she mused that Fusco was using a payphone, and she couldn't remember the last time she had seen someone do that.

 **/**

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading!


End file.
